


Hitting Save

by TellMeNoAgain



Series: So Much Trouble [20]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Domestic Discipline, Dominance, F/M, M/M, Power Imbalance, Spanking, Starker D/s, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:07:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23515165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: Read at your own risk- SPANKING INSIDE~~~Peter blows out an annoyed breath and Natasha sighs, dropping her arms and taking a step back.  He’s leading, and he’s not expecting her to suddenly step out of frame, so of course Peter trips over his feet, almost falling.  He asks, “What? What. Natasha, what?” a little frantically, because he must have messed something up. Again.“You should talk to him,” she says slowly.  “Whatever it is, you should just go to Tony, and talk to him.”Peter’s heart hammers a little.  “What do you mean?” he asks, trying to sound confused.  But she’s got the same piercing eyes Mr. Stark has, and she merely quirks an eyebrow at him.
Relationships: Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Series: So Much Trouble [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1562707
Comments: 45
Kudos: 139





	Hitting Save

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the vigorous and virtuous jf4m and mindwiped, THANK YOU FOR MAKING IT ALL BETTER. All remaining formatting or other errors are mine.
> 
> NOT ENDGAME COMPLIANT. (Let's be real here, this AU is barely MCU compliant.)
> 
> Dead Dove Warning finally! Finally! We're here! Starker D/s!
> 
> For prudes, these are fictional characters and I've double checked, no one actually has a skeevy real-life relationship or asks to get spanked* as a result of this series, so, like, relax. No one is going to get hurt. They're not real.
> 
> Most of this came from a prompt in the comments by Abigail, THANK YOU FOR GETTING ME UNSTUCK.
> 
> *I mean, maybe some readers do? I have no idea. I'm not responsible for other people's bedrooms, though. Or their living rooms.

Peter blows out an annoyed breath and Natasha sighs, dropping her arms and taking a step back. He’s leading, and he’s not expecting her to suddenly step out of frame, so of course Peter trips over his feet, almost falling. He asks, “What? What. Natasha, what?” a little frantically, because he must have messed something up. Again.

“You should talk to him,” she says slowly. “Whatever it is, you should just go to Tony, and talk to him.”

Peter’s heart hammers a little. “What do you mean?” he asks, trying to sound confused. But she’s got the same piercing eyes Mr. Stark has, and she merely quirks an eyebrow at him.

“What?” he asks, his voice absurdly defensive, trying to ignore that she’s trying to have this conversation he’s been avoiding all week. Who does she think she is, though? Go to Tony, talk to him about _this? This, what?_ Peter’s fine. He’s just fine. Everything’s under control. He just needs to stop messing stuff up, that’s all.

Natasha shakes her head and murmurs, “Peter, Peter. Well, I can’t dance with you like this. Go, I don’t know, take a shower. Good workout.” Her eyes are compassionate and kind and it makes him irrationally angry when she completely dismisses him, walking over to a treadmill and stepping on, beginning her cool-down routine.

Good _workout_. She can’t _dance with him_? Like this? Like _what_? He’s just himself. What the _hell._ Everything’s _fine_. 

_What the hell is_ **_her_ ** _problem?_ thinks Peter angrily, as he stalks away.

He doesn’t go to his room, though. He goes back to the lab. At least in the lab, there’s only Bruce, and Bruce is buried hip-deep in some kind of gamma-radiation geek out with Dr. Foster right now, apparently since December 7th there’s been some kind of ripple wave signature coming from a star system that’s usually much more quiet, and they’ve been geeking around the clock as the data flows in. He barely surfaces for meals, and usually only then if Peter leaves a plate as his elbow. It’s adorable and as his sciencebro, Peter supports it. He’s just really glad Tony installed a shower as well as the three twin beds, that’s all. 

In the lab, he can concentrate. He can concentrate, and he can get his work done, and it’s fine. It’s perfectly fine. There isn’t even a problem, that’s how fine it is. It’s great.

Natasha’s crazy. Everyone knows that. She’s crazy and she thinks she knows everything when she doesn’t, and anyway, there’s nothing to know. He’s fine, everything’s great.

He can’t “go to Tony,” anyway. Tony’s thousands of miles away in Italy right now.

She’s ridiculous, Peter decides, turning on his station. Absolutely ridiculous.

~~~

When he surfaces for food, he hisses in frustration, because he still hasn’t figured out the answer to Shuri’s question and it shouldn’t be this hard, it really shouldn’t. He glances at the clock on his station and winces. It’s the third day in a row that he’s missed two meals in a row, and sure enough, there’s the little alert on his station’s main screen. 

He also ignores his email alert, even though it’s bright, indiciating urgent, because he knows there’s like ten from Pepper in there. He couldn’t think of a good answer for the first one, days ago, and so they can all just sit there until this blows over. Not that anything’s _happening_. Not that there’s anything that needs to blow over. Everything’s fine.

He checks his phone, and there’s a new message in the only conversation he actually wants to open, so he opens it and types,

 _What time? Sure u don’t want Starkjet?_

To both Ned and MJ.

Ned fires back, quickly,

_Nah. Thx tho. 9 PM. Heading 2 fam 1st._

_6 PM 4 me_ replies MJ _Also n thx_

Peter sighs. It’ll be good to see them. They’ve been stressed out with finals but neither one of them will be going back to school until late January, so there will be plenty of time to hang out and do nothing, and neither one of them has made any weird hinty comments at him in the past week.

Unlike Clint, whose last message Peter isn’t even bothering to open because the man will not let up and Peter’s trying to keep it together. Hard to keep it together when someone’s trying to press your buttons about every little detail, every little thing.

And that’s _without_ Sam stopping by twice a day “just to chat.”

At least Kevin’s boys are leaving him alone, he thinks angrily, because they’re all grounded from their devices this week after last week’s Twitter warfare with some celebrity. Which sucks, actually, because if there’s anyone Peter could talk to right now, who’d probably _get it_ , it would be them. But it sounds like Eddie went off the deep end over some transphobia and well… it’s Eddie. Kevin was probably right to make him put down the phone and take a week-long deep breath.

Peter sighs. He wishes that were the worst of his worries today. He attempts a little clean-up of his normally pretty well-organized station, his movements angry and jerky. His elbow knocks over a positively ancient mug of coffee, all over the actual paperwork he has laid out on his station, and fuck. _Fuck_. FUCK. 

Fuck this _day_. Fuck _everything_! He’s trying so hard to just get past this little, this little nothing that’s happening to him right now, and then shit like keeps happening, keeps slowing him down. It’s enough to make him wonder if, like, his chakras need cleansing or something. 

Bruce looks up from his work, and offers, “Hey, you need, uh, help? Paper towel?”

Peter blows out a breath before he bites the man’s head off and mutters, “No, I got it, thanks, just spilled some coffee.”

Bruce leans back in his chair and says, slowly, “You seem a little off, everything okay?”

Not him, too, groans Peter to himself. “Yeah, no, I’m fine. Got a little-” he waves vaguely- “working distracted, you know, mind’s always tugging at the problem.”

“Oh, that thing you and Shuri are working on? For T’Challa?” asks Bruce, nodding.

“Yeah, that,” says Peter bitterly. He recognizes it, though, and dredges up a smile from somewhere in the brain muck he feels sloshing around inside his skull. “Almost got it figured out. Again.”

“Again?” asks Bruce. Peter winces. 

“Yeah, I, I had the- you know what? It’s not a big deal. I just have to re-work it, follow my footsteps. I’m hungry, though, missed lunch and dinner, was gonna grab myself something, you want anything?” he offers, desperately trying to sound positive and upbeat. It’s been a long three days, though. A long three days and a long three nights.

“Oh, thanks, but actually, I’m subsisting off of my green shakes and protein bars. We’re so close, I don’t want to miss a minute of the live data stream. We’re really onto something, here,” says Bruce, his eyes lighting up in excitement.

Peter remembers that feeling. It’s awesome. He smiles back at his sciencebro and says, “Well, let me know if you get low on stock for either one of them, I can bring you more.”

“You’re great, Peter, couldn’t ask for a better lab partner,” swears Bruce and Peter grins at him, because they’re both thinking of Mr. Stark right then and they both _know_ that they’re both not mentioning his name. It’s great, having sciencebros who _get the silent jokes_ , too.

Peter waves at Bruce and then strides away, stumbling a little just before the doorway on some junk that he didn’t see in his way. He should maybe get some extra down-time, tonight, see if sleep is the answer.

~~~

It turns out, sleep is not the answer.

Sleep isn’t even a possibility.

All he can think about is that stupid night. He had the answer, it was right there, why the hell didn’t he save his work? It’s not like FRIDAY hadn’t given him the warning, _twice_. 

Hell, why the hell can’t he remember the breakthrough, _he made the breakthrough._

But that’s science, sometimes. He just has to re-work the problem, re-trace all his footsteps, and wait for lighting to strike. Twice.

Fuck.

Peter sighs, and gets out of bed.

FRIDAY chimes and says, “Peter Parker, you should sleep. I can have a sedative-”

“Nah, FRIDAY,” interrupts Peter. “I’m fine. Just not tired.”

“You should sleep,” she insists. Pushy AI.

“You saw me try to sleep, I can’t sleep, I’ll just get up and go down to the lab, try to figure this out, that’s all,” he tells her. “As soon as I figure it out again, I can sleep, I’ll sleep all you want, once I’ve figured this out. Again.” And there, he’s making promises to computer programs, _that’s_ not a bad sign or anything, he chides himself.

“I am so sorry, Peter, that I performed maintenance on the lab stations, I should have-” she states, and, okay, it’s getting ridiculous. It’s no one’s fault the data disappeared, the proof, the conjecture he’d written and then hadn’t saved. And now can’t remember. It’s definitely not the AIs fault.

“It’s not your fault, I told you,” he reassures her. He has told her. He’s told her and told her and honestly, it’s getting on his nerves that she keeps bringing it up.

“Mr. Stark arrives today,” she responds, sounding hopeful. “Maybe he knows of a subroutine that can revive the files after they’ve been overwritten.”

“Maybe,” agrees Peter easily. It’s not the first time she’s floated the theory past him in the past few days, but it sounds pretty desperate and unlikely.

“Well, okay, I’ll be watching though, Peter. No more accidents. Be safe.”

“It was only the one fire,” he protests, blushing a little.

“No more accidents,” she states firmly.

“Yeah, okay, FRIDAY,” he agrees.

~~~

There’s one more accident.It’s a lot of fire.

But he gets it under control, and honestly the alarm reminded Bruce to check in with Natasha before getting some shut-eye, and the paperwork had already been scanned _prior_ to him dumping coffee all over it earlier, so whatever. Zero sum, no one was hurt.

And when the adrenaline leaves his body, he’s able to catch a few hours of sleep before he’s up again, brushing his teeth, ready for another delightful day of failing miserably to keep it together.

~~~

Natasha is brutal in the morning workout, pushing him and making him work for maximum Gumby flexibility. She doesn’t toss on music at the end, either. She just stands there, a little too close, and tilts her head. “Peter. Bruce told me about the fire this morning."

“Last night,” he corrects her, scowling at the far wall.

“He will want to know,” she tells him softly. “He will want to help.”

“Everything’s fine,” he lies to her. “I’m just a little distracted, that’s all. Busy brain, you know.”

“Drink water,” she tells him, after a long pause where he doesn’t look at her. “Eat something. And then be smart, and talk to him.”

He was going to do those things anyway. Not talking to Mr. Stark is like ignoring an invading army, even if you could do it, _why would you want to?_

Besides, he’s going to remember the thing he forgot, the lynchpin ah-ha moment, any second. He just needs to spend more time with the data.

~~~

Mr. Stark’s icon pops up on his station’s main screen and Peter swallows, feeling guilty for no reason he can identify. He doesn’t feel the sudden leap of joy he usually feels, thinking of being reunited with the man after any length of absence. He just feels… guilty. 

Well, that’s ridiculous. Nobody did anything wrong. _He_ hasn’t done anything wrong. Everything’s fine. Science is just hard, sometimes. Gotta bust a lot of bulbs before you get one that illuminates when you run electricity through the wire, that’s all. 

Mr. Stark will be expecting him to run up and say hi, he knows, so he closes down his station, saves his work carefully, and exits the lab. Bruce is passed out on his twin bed, so he’s careful not to trip on anything on his way out the door.

~~~

“Peter!” smiles Mr. Stark, turning around at the kitchen island to face him and, suddenly, there’s a thudding pressure in Peter’s chest.

“Hey, Mr. Stark,” he says weakly, and then, as the man’s face drops, he adds, “Hey, can I talk to you a sec?” He has no idea why he says it, but there’s something, something about seeing Mr. Stark, in the flesh, after this crappy week. He knows it’s not the best homecoming or whatever, but he feels like he’s going to cry, and he needs to talk to the man, _now_ , like, _immediately_. And privately.

He sees Natasha smile, and nod encouragement, out of the corner of his eye, and if he could throw a dagger at her, he would. He’s not doing this because _she_ said to do it. He just. He just needs a moment with the man, that’s all.

Mr. Stark nods, seriously, and says, “Yeah, let’s- let’s do that. C’mon, Trouble.”

He walks just behind Mr. Stark until the door to their hallway closes, and then Mr. Stark throws an arm around his shoulder and asks quietly, “My room or yours?”

“Uh, y-yours,” stammers Peter.

“That bad, huh?” asks Mr. Stark, in such a completely compassionate and understanding tone that Peter could kiss him and also, strangely, Peter wants to punch him.

Yeah, so, okay, maybe everything isn’t great.

“That bad,” agrees Peter, allowing Mr. Stark to steer him.

Mr. Stark throws himself down into a sprawl on the black leather chair and watches as Peter sits, far more gingerly, on the couch adjacent to it.

“Well, you certainly hid this for shit, Pepper’s been blowing up my phone,” he informs Peter bluntly. “What’s up, Trouble?”

Peter shifts and then, with a sigh, heaves himself over to kneel in front of Mr. Stark. The position is familiar and comforting, on a deep level. For once, he doesn’t question why he likes it. He just kneels, and is grateful that he has this sense of calm and comfort here for him.

Mr. Stark makes a small inquisitive noise and then leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, boxing Peter in, pressing their foreheads together gently. “What’s up, Trouble? You’ve got everyone all worried. You look like you’ve been chewing on yourself pretty hard.”

“Can I-” asks Peter, his voice breaking, because this is ridiculous, it’s ridiculous to even want this. Mr. Stark is going to laugh and say no, and then he’ll be fucked and have lost the man. This is _childish_ , what he wants to say, wants to ask for. The man is going to say no, anyway.

“Just ask, perfect Peter Parker,” Mr. Stark says quietly. “Remember that you’re perfect for me, handcrafted for me, and just ask.”

“Can I- I feel so bad,” says Peter, squirming a little. “I- that stupid thing I’ve been working on with Shuri, you remember, the irrigation issue in Birnim Zana?”

“With the pipes, yes,” agrees Mr. Stark easily.

“I had it!” Peter says forcefully. “I had it all figured out, but I can’t remember, it was so late, I’d been up- you’d left for Italy, remember? And then I worked all day and it was late, too late, I should have stopped, it was late the next night and I had it! I had all the data, but it was the fifteenth and on the fifteenth at midnight-”

“FRIDAY scrubs the labs systems,” says Mr. Stark, appropriately horrified as only a sciencebro can be. “Oh, no, damn, Peter, I have been there, I have done that.”

Well, that helps, thinks Peter, raising his eyes. “Any chance you know any tricks?”

“Sorry, Trouble,” says Mr. Stark, and his lips twitch. “It’s a full scrub.”

Peter sighs. “Yeah, I thought so, but FRIDAY keeps _saying_.”

“Does she,” murmurs Mr. Stark, like that’s interesting. 

Peter nods miserably.

“And so how are you handling this epic fuck up?” asks Mr. Stark. 

“I-” Peter hears Kevin’s voice say, _honesty_ and honestly? He wants to strangle that man, too. Honesty sincerely sucks. “I could probably be handling it better,” he admits. He bites his lip and then asks, “Could we- could you-” _Dammit._

The words are so hard.

“Ask, Peter,” says Mr. Stark, slowly, lifting Peter’s chin and pressing a kiss to his lips. Peter kisses back, a little desperately, seeking the familiar sensation. “Go ahead. What’s the worst thing I could do?”

Peter laughs bleakly because he has been reciting the list to himself all week, “Laugh, and tell me no, and then dump me and call me a child, and then post a bunch of sex tapes on the internet and then-”

Mr. Stark stops him with another kiss, slower, less chaste, chuckling into it. “Ask me,” he breathes, pulling back only far enough to get the words out cleanly before giving Peter another scouring kiss. When he releases Peter again, he holds Peter’s chin gently cupped in his hands and repeats, “Ask me.”

“I feel so bad, and I can’t _think_ , because I feel so bad,” mutters Peter angrily. “Please, Mr. Stark, it worked, after Washington, could you- would you- could I-” _oh for fuck’s sake, grow a pair, Parker_ “-could-you-spank-me-please?”

“Yes,” says Mr. Stark simply. Peter feels his breath pull deep from his belly, his chest loosening for the first time in days. Mr. Stark kisses his lips fondly while he reels with shock and murmurs, “You need one, I could see _that_ the minute I turned around.”

“Please, thank you,” he tells Mr. Stark, shocked at the relief coursing around his body.

“No, Perfect Peter Parker,” says Mr. Stark slowly, “thank _you_. That was… an incredible thing, just now.”

Peter blushes, looking up at him, and Mr. Stark smiles back. “Okay, enough chatter, we have a problem to solve,” says Mr. Stark briskly. “Shortcut engaged. Pants off, Mr. Parker.”

Peter groans as he stands, fingers twitching at the drawstrings to the scrubs. 

“Out of curiosity, informal survey, how long have you been wearing scrub pants around the place?” asks Mr. Stark.

Peter shrugs. “I don’t know, I think… I think I had on jeans the night I messed up, but I’ve mostly been in the lab since then, around the clock, so...Monday? Four days? They’re clean,” he adds, because he doesn’t want Mr. Stark to think he’s sunk that low.

“Hm,” says Mr. Stark.

“Why?” asks Peter, bewildered.

“No reason, just collecting data,” says Mr. Stark. “Stop twiddling with that drawstring, Trouble, and drop them already. I know stalling when I see it.”

“Mr. Stark,” whines Peter, and that’s all, because he hears himself, and it’s awful. He presses his lips together and slides the scrubs down his hips, and the briefs with them, too.

“Enough,” growls Mr. Stark, when Peter hesitates again. “On my knee, now. You literally asked for it, and now you’re going to get it. Let’s go, Mr. Parker.”

Peter shivers, but bends awkwardly, draping himself there and not at all surprised when Mr. Stark shifts him where the man wants him, the angle awkward, as always. Mr. Stark doesn’t waste time with words, this morning, instead beginning with a series of rapid, light smacks, pattering everywhere on Peter’s backside. Peter shifts, trying to get comfortable, trying to find a point of balance, until Mr. Stark growls, “You stay-”

“Where you put me, sir, I remember,” gasps Peter quickly, stilling under the almost-gentle blows.

“ _Do_ you? Because that looked like a lot of _wiggling_ , Trouble.”

What? It most certainly had _not_. Puppies and small children wiggle. Grown men _do not_. Peter holds himself very still, and suppresses the frown that wants to slide over his face, because it feels a little… pouty.

The light, rapid smacks continues until Peter’s breathing is a little raspy, and then Mr. Stark finally, _finally_ , asks, “Why are we here, Mr. Parker?”

Peter blows out a breath and responds wryly, “For science.”

He hears the chuckle in Mr. Stark’s voice as the man says, “Not ready to talk? That’s fine. Pepper literally cleared my schedule to give me re-adjustment time, today. I’ve got nothing but time to re-adjust you, too.” The smacks get harder, but no less rapid, until Peter is struggling to hold still under their onslaught.

“B-because I asked,” he yelps, finally.

“You did ask, I was so proud,” says Mr. Stark firmly. “And I could tell you needed one. How could I tell, Mr. Parker?”

“Because I fucked up again, I’m pretty much always fucking up, it’s like clockwork, FRIDAY probably has a timer set,” spits Peter.

The next smacks are not playing around, and neither is Mr. Stark’s tone as he chides, “That’s enough of that. I want an _answer_ , not a _tantrum_ , Mr. Parker.”

Peter flushes and says, “I don’t know. I- I don’t know how you could tell. That I n-needed. This.”

“A _spanking_ , Mr. Parker. This activity? It has a name. A perfectly good name,” teases Mr. Stark, his hand falling heavily, making Peter jump although he is careful not to wigg- _shift his weight._

“Yes, sir,” says Peter miserably. “H-how could you tell?” he asks, his voice wavering between low and high as the blows land, sounding breathless.

“You look like shit, Mr. Parker,” replies Mr. Stark succinctly, which, _not flattering, thanks, Mr. Stark._ He continues, “I mean, I’d still do you, your hotness level is just incredible when you’re looking healthy. and. happy,” the three words are punctuated by heavy blows. Peter doesn’t yelp, but it’s close. “But today? There’s bags under your eyes and you’re moving like you expect someone to arrest you, and I’ve been with you for ten minutes and you’ve frowned for most of them. That’s not my happy, healthy spider, Mr. Parker.”

“S-sorry,” hisses Peter.

“You’re certainly going to be,” says Mr. Stark in that dark, teasing tone that just _does things_ to Peter’s libido. _Ack. Not now. Down, boy!_

Mr. Stark’s hand rains down heavier blows, then, for a while, and Peter struggles to breathe through them, chest tightening up again with the strain. He stops abruptly, rubbing Peter’s ass with a rough hand, making Peter yelp and twist a little. “There you are,” he says, mysteriously. “Paying attention. Now, you’re here because you asked, I’m here because I could tell you needed one, so, next step. What’s the word for how you’re feeling?”

“Bad,” gasps Peter.

“Mm. More specific?” asks Mr. Stark, still rubbing.

“Very bad,” hisses Peter. His butt is on fire, he’s having a shitty week, what does the man want?

“Mm, not ready to talk yet. Well, I do have all day with a free schedule,” says Mr. Stark musingly, as his hand begins to smack down with heavy, hard thumps. They ring loudly in Peter’s ears, echoing around the emptiness of the room, a backbeat of rhythm that changes pace according to Mr. Stark’s whim.

Eventually Peter is gasping and grunting, and Mr. Stark slows again to ask, “Ready to talk?” in a bright tone of voice.

“Ready, sir,” gasps Peter, grabbing frantically for the reprieve.

“What’s the word for how you’re feeling?” asks Mr. Stark.

“I don’t- I, like a failure?” asks Peter. “Like a fuck-up?”

“You know, I can kind of see Kevin’s point about language. I’m not changing the rules, I don’t usually mind it, but during spankings? I can kind of see his point,” muses Mr. Stark, his hand continuing to fall heavily, if slowly. “So what you’re saying,” he says to Peter, as Peter squirms and hisses, “is that you feel like you were responsible for something, something that went wrong. We have a word for that, English is incredible, for when everything goes wrong and you feel like it’s your fault. What’s that word?”

“G-guilty,” admits Peter. _Fuck. Not again._

“Bingo. And have you noticed, you sometimes, oh, how to put this del-i-cat-ly,” says Mr. Stark conversationally, punctuating the syllables of the last word with blows that have Peter hissing loudly. He waits for Peter to relax before continuing, “Have you noticed that sometimes, you get a little carried away with the guilt, Mr. Parker?”

There’s no blow, but Peter winces.

“Waiting for words, Mr. Parker,” reminds Mr. Stark. “Still not a mind-reader.”

“Coulda fooled _me,”_ mutters Peter.

“What was that, Mr. Parker?” asks Mr. Stark, smacking again, heavily.

“I get a little carried away with the guilt, Mr. Stark,” huffs Peter. 

“And what’s our rule, for when you’re feeling like you did something wrong, and you start to get a little carried away, and you need some help?” says Mr. Stark pointedly.

Oh, _fuck_. “But you were in Italy!” protests Peter, because there’s a shot, there’s a shot it could work.

“StarkCellular has the single most effective network of satellites in the entire _world_ , Mr. Parker,” Mr. Stark informs him sharply, which, okay, fair point. Peter’s seen the schematics. “What’s the _rule_?”

“I-” begins Peter, feeling a lump in his throat because, dammit, here they are _again_ , the same damn _thing_. “I should t-talk to you.” _Hey, wait a minute._ “But I did, you- I did! When- you were here, and I did!”

“You did,” agrees Mr. Stark. “And I continue to be impressed and proud and I will remind you of today every single time you forget to reach out and connect-” he lays a heavy smack on the word for emphasis, Peter’s starting to get the sneaking suspicion he really _does_ enjoy his role, “with me, in the future. But did you do that reaching out _before_ or _after_ you stopped eating, stopped sleeping, and started ignoring emails and text messages?”

“A-after,” says Peter, with a sinking feeling. There’s a long pause of absolute silence that gives Peter plenty of time to contemplate that statement before mumbling resentfully, “I ate.” _Sometimes_.

“Yeah, that’s not how FRIDAY’s been reporting it,” snorts Mr. Stark.

“You were- you were in Italy, working, I couldn’t-” starts Peter quietly, miserably.

“Yes, I was in Italy, working,” agrees Mr. Stark, his hand resting, cupping Peter’s ass, his fingers tapping gently. “And that makes you not one particle less my first priority. Which we’re going to discuss here, in detail and depth. Was there anything, any of my meetings this last week, that you couldn’t have interrupted for a quick chat?”

“I- I don’t know,” protests Peter, the lump in his throat rising around the thought of being Mr. Stark’s first priority. He has no idea what was on Mr. Stark’s schedule. He didn’t even think to ask FRIDAY. Or Pepper.

“That’s exactly right. And why don’t you know?” asks Mr. Stark pleasantly, starting up with those almost-gentle swats again.

“D-didn’t ask,” stutters Peter, as the first tears slip out. “D-didn’t, _reach out_.”

“Correct. Didn’t respond to my last text message, don’t think I didn’t notice that, and definitely ignored every single email from the last two days,” says Mr. Stark severely. “Although I really would like to congratulate you on finding the single most effective way of conveying, ‘Mr. Stark, when you arrive home, plan to spend the morning sorting out a situation.’ Because, Trouble, the silent treatment is never going to convey _anything_ else.”

Peter scrubs his cheek on Mr. Stark’s leg. “Got it,” he croaks.

“Oh, you’ll be getting it, yet,” agrees Mr. Stark. “Hold still. Stay where I put you.”

“Yes, sir,” croaks Peter miserably.

Mr. Stark raises his hand and strikes a match, and Peter’s whole body is warmed by the flame he lights on Peter’s backside over the next several minutes.

Peter is gasping and miserable when he realizes Mr. Stark has stopped. He gulps back the next sob, and the one after that, listening carefully.

“So, is that enough, are you ready to discuss some changes to your behavior?” asks Mr. Stark calmly. He’s not even winded, thinks Peter resentfully. He’s not even, he’s- it’s not fair.

“Yes, sir,” he mutters humbly.

“What do you think you could have done to prevent this situation?” asks Mr. Stark.

“Saved my work?” answers Peter miserably.

“Yeah, I wondered if you were still confused about why we’re here,” grunts Mr. Stark, shifting Peter, raising him higher, and Peter remembers that move, that move means his sit spot is perfectly positioned for-

“Mr. Parker-” begins Mr. Stark as his hand slaps down, making Peter jump with the force of the blow and squeak, and then there’s nothing but squeaks as he continues to light up Peter’s sit spot as he drives home the points of his lecture- “engineering is messy and confusing and I cannot tell you how many times I have had to go all the way back to square one and start again. I cannot tell you how many times I have ignored the ‘station cleaning’ alert on my desktop only to find FRIDAY has accidentally wiped whatever schematic I have just spent time modifying.”

“Twenty-three, sir,” interrupts the wry voice of the AI, startling both of them.

“... thank you, FRIDAY,” says Mr. Stark, laying another heavy smack. “That is part of engineering. Failure is part of engineering. I cat-e-gor-i-cal-ly re-fuse,” he says emphatically, with heavy-handed emphasis to Peter’s backside, again, dropping Peter down slightly and causing Peter to hiccup on a muffled sob, “to spank you every single time you have to travel back to square one. So, no, we are not here because you forgot to save your work. As a point of fact, I can have FRIDAY take every single file on your drive back to the first saved copy- which would be a shame, because I love your work- but I would do it, if it would drive home the point that I am not sitting here, hosting this discussion, because you forgot to save your work five night ago. Why are we here, right now?” he thunders, the loudness of his voice matching the sharpness of his hand, and Peter has to gasp roughly before he can whimper, “Please, please, Mr. Stark, please.”

Mr. Stark rubs his hand in a soothing circle at the small of Peter’s back and repeats, “Why are we here, Mr. Parker?” in a much softer and almost coaxing tone of voice. “Why do you need this?”

“B-because I feel too guilty and- and I d-didn’t, didn’t talk to you,” stutters Peter. “Because I d-didn’t call you, or answer your emails or-”

“Or reach out,” finishes Mr. Stark. “You wanted to throw a temper tantrum instead, and beat yourself up for not being perfect. Is that how we handle things? We let you throw temper tantrums and beat yourself up when something goes wrong?”

“No, sir,” says Peter, scrubbing his face on Mr. Stark’s leg again. “N-no.”

“So, what do you think you could have done, to prevent this situation, right here, with you and your red ass over my knee?” repeats Mr. Stark.

Peter takes a deep breath and sighs, “Called you. I could have- or texted you and said- or answered your email.”

“Good boy.” Peter melts, just a little, he can’t help it, those stupid two words undo him every time. Mr. Stark continues, “Who else could you have reached out to, talked this through with?”

 _Wait. What?_ Peter’s mind races. “Uh, um. About the guilt, or about the, the work?”

“Why are we here?” asks Mr. Stark mildly, tapping his fingers in warning.

“The guilt,” replies Peter quickly, “the guilt, the guilt, Mr. Stark, sir.”

“So---?” murmurs Mr. Stark, with a leading lilt to his voice. “Who else?”

“Pepper,” Peter says, finally, feeling decisive. “Or, or maybe Natasha.” Maybe. If he can ever look her in the eye again. Peter blows out a breath.

“That’s a start,” agrees Mr. Stark. “You have a list of people, if you think I’m not available. Although, newsflash, Peter Parker, I love you, so I’m available. You have a whole list of people who would listen, and who would care, if you wanted to tell them what’s going on.”

“Sam,” mutters Peter, the _I love you_ playing on repeat in his mind. “And, uh, Clint. They- they said, this week, they both tried to-”

“Yeah,” responds Mr. Stark, when Peter’s voice fades. “Yeah, Mr. Parker. A whole army of people who not only would grudgingly help you, but who are actively _trying_ to help you. A whole group of people who have been reaching out to _you,_ ” he adds softly.

 _Oh_. 

Oh, _damn_.

“So, next time you feel this way, next time you feel guilty and bad, what’s step one?” asks Mr. Stark, punctuating the question with a single solid smack.

“You. Talk to you,” chokes Peter, twisting under the need to get the words out in a voice that isn’t yelping.

"And if you _think_ I’m not available?” questions Mr. Stark, his hand adding emphasis again.

“Someone else- someone, Pepper, Natasha, Clint, Sam, someone-” stutters Peter rapidly, eager to show that he’s got it. He understands. He will- he really will try.

“Good. I think that’s a good plan,” approves Mr. Stark. “So, I’m feeling pretty confident you’ve got the point. Let’s put this away, okay? Stay where I put you.”

“Yes, sir,” gasps Peter, clutching on to Mr. Stark’s leg tightly.

It lasts forever, forever and just a few heartbeats, from the first hit to the last one. Eventually, though, Mr. Stark’s hands- feeling hot to the touch- soothe up and down Peter’s spine as he gulps air and shakes his head, trying to clear his vision and get control of his heaving chest, quiet his sobbing. Mr. Stark shifts him, letting his feet touch the ground for the first time. Slowly, he shifts Peter so he’s kneeling in front of Mr. Stark again. Peter’s careful not to sink back down onto his heels and risk his butt touching anything but air.

“Shhh, Peter, shhh,” soothes Mr. Stark, the whole time, quiet little murmurs, repetitions of his name.

“I keep, I keep forgetting,” mumbles Peter in a wretched, wrecked sob. “And I’m _sorry_. I _am_.”

“I know you are,” says Mr. Stark firmly. “You’re not doing it on purpose, Peter. It’s a thing young, driven geniuses just do, sometimes, they get all bent out of shape when they’re not perfect, it’s a hazard of the brain type. And you don’t need this particular shortcut, we could be working on this the long, drawn-out way. Why do we handle it like this, with you over my knee?”

“B-because it’s _us,”_ Peter tells him fiercely, looking up at him, at the dark eyes and quirked lips he loves so well, trying to show his conviction. “Because we _want_ to.” _Because I’m handcrafted for you,_ he doesn’t say, but he hopes his eyes convey it.

“That’s right, Peter,” whispers Mr. Stark. “Because it’s us. So remember that, when you start feeling overwhelmed and guilty. You’re not doing this alone. We’re an us.”

Peter feels tears trail down his cheeks again, hot and wet, as Mr. Stark leans down to kiss him, gently. “My arm is tired and I could use a nap,” Mr. Stark declares quietly, pulling back slowly to wipe Peter’s face with his fingers and smile down at him. “Come, let me wrap you up in all my cephalopod glory.”

“Yeah, okay,” laughs Peter, a little shakily, as he rises to his feet, pulled by Mr. Stark. “Just, hands off the butt, until the healing factor kicks in.”

“No promises,” teases Mr. Stark, drawing him over to the bed. “Who’s in charge here?”

“You are,” Peter assures him, helping him take off his suit jacket and laying it on the arm of a chair while Mr. Stark undoes his own tie. Peter untucks Mr. Stark’s shirt while the man unbuttons his cuffs and starts on his shirt front buttons, kicking off his shoes. 

“God, worst sleep of my life,” grumbles Mr. Stark. “Not even one of my teddy bears to keep me company. What was your excuse for not following me to Italy?” he accuses.

“I’d be bored without my lab,” Peter reminds him. “I had just started the project with Shuri and I needed access to the lab’s equipment.”

“Yeah, well, look how that turned out, you would have been better off without it,” points out Mr. Stark. “Next time, I get what I want and you’ll just have to deal.”

“I mean, if you want to owe T’Challa one, sure,” says Peter with a wicked grin. “I’m sure he won’t cash that favor in sometime next fall.”

“Hush, you,” mutters Mr. Stark, sliding off his pants and climbing into the bed, making grabby-handed gestures at Peter. Peter smiles, and allows himself to be pulled into the fearsome grip of his favorite bed-squid, who is very careful about where his hands are placed and how he pulls his victim to him, for all his big talk about no promises.

“FRIDAY, lights, it’s naptime,” mutters Mr. Stark, sighing a little and kissing the top of Peter’s head, nuzzling gently through Peter’s curls. One of his legs is draped over Peter’s thigh, right at the edge of the blazing burn, but Peter doesn’t care, he feels so safe and warm and calm.

“Yes, sir,” says the AI cheerfully. “Sweet dreams.”

“Sure,” mumbles Mr. Stark. “Sounds good.”

~~~

Two days later, they’re both bent over the schematics. “T’Challa’s going to owe _me_ one,” declares Mr. Stark. “We’re _geniuses_. I mean, good job, figuring out the thing with the backflow valve, but you have to admit, this section here, A12-G19, that’s a leap of intuitive mathematics equal to the creation of zero.”

It really is good work, agrees Peter privately, admiring the schematic one more time. He rolls his eyes, though, and says, “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” because he’s been working around the clock with Mr. Stark. There is, apparently, such a thing as _too much Tony_ , and three am? That’s when it hits Peter.

“Bedtime?” asks Mr. Stark brightly. He’s so full of energy, Peter can already guess he doesn’t mean, _let’s go to sleep_ , and while one part of Peter groans, there are other parts that begin, uh, perking up.

“Let me hit save,” sighs Peter, but there’s a smile twitching his lips that belies the aggrieved tone. “FRIDAY?”

“Saved, Peter,” she informs him cheerfully. “It is a thing of beauty, boss.”

“It sure is,” agrees Mr. Stark loudly, but he’s not looking at the schematic, which has winked out of existence. He’s looking at Peter. Peter feels the blush rising, and it makes his heart race. “He sure is,” repeats Mr. Stark softly.

“Hornball,” chuckles Peter, to break the moment. 

Mr. Stark grabs his arms and plants a kiss on his mouth, filthy and lewd and wet and pornographic, Peter’s favorite kind. “You know it, Trouble,” he says cheerfully. “All yours.”

 _All mine,_ thinks Peter smugly, as he shuts down the rest of the station, swiping things into some semblance of order, and turns to leave the lab.

They walk out together, shoulder to shoulder, Mr. Stark bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. Half-way down the hallway, Mr. Stark asks conversationally, “Hey, what are you getting Pep for Christmas? I got all caught up in Italy, completely forgot.”

Oh. No. _Christmas._ “Yeah, I, uh, did too?” admits Peter. Well, there’s still plenty of time, he figures, shrugging. Plenty of time to figure out what to get for the man and woman who literally have everything. Sure.

“Shit,” swears Mr. Stark. “Well, rack your brain. Later. We’ll go shopping. Later. Have some ideas, right now. High priority ideas. Take precedence.”

“Yes, Mr. Stark,” murmurs Peter, a smile curving his lips. “I kind of figured you did.”

They share a mutually delighted grin as they enter the Stark hallway, and Peter is definitely looking forward to his next brainstorming session with Mr. Stark, scheduled for, oh, about five minutes from now.

**Author's Note:**

> Come meet me in the comment section with a list of your demands (I seriously have a list of all the plotbunnies people have farmed off to me because I love new ideas), but keep it cool with the critiquing, guys, I'm new. Compliment sandwiches WORK.
> 
> I swear to GOD I will stop splitting my Trouble stories into smut= Island with the next story because it's been a total mental block to think that I have to finish the Island before writing anything else and I'd like to get back to this AU. This pair is so sweet, I need more of that in my life right now.


End file.
